Diversion
by Hoodoo
Summary: Keeping Sherlock's attention is difficult, but oh, the reward!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: no recognizable characters are mine. Drat.

Note: I resisted this a long time, but in the end couldn't hold out. It's an odd pairing that kinda-sorta makes sense.

Enjoy!

* * *

The weight of the silk on his face was heavier than expected, and thick enough that his eyelashes brushed against it as he blinked. That meant a momme of at least 19, and the brief moment he'd had to see the creamy luster of it before the fabric had been tied around his head indicated it was from silkworms fed a diet exclusively of mulberry leaves—

"You're doing it again."

"What? I was merely considering the property of—oh, sorry—"

A finger pressed against his lips and he had to stop talking so he didn't accidently bite the tip of it as it dipped just inside his mouth.

When he was silent and made no indication he would say anything more, the cushions of the couch shifted. He shifted with them but kept his balance.

Feet padded away from him, across the throw rug and into the kitchen. Soles made slight sticking noises when they made the transition from carpet to tile, and he carefully turned his head to hear more clearly.

With the sound of a weak hermetic seal breaking, the refrigerator was pulled open. The sound of glass on glass reached him as objects were moved on their shelves inside, then a barely inaudible gasp, then the refrigerator door was closed, then the feet were walking back again—more slowly this time, more carefully. Things were being carried, things in glass bowls and containers. They were cold things, so cold they burned bare skin for a split second, judging by the quick gasp he had heard.

Seated on the couch, blindfolded, naked, Sherlock waited.


	2. Chapter 2

Glass bowls and the other items carried were set down carefully—a faint metallic click on the nearby table made him cock his head more—and he sensed rather than actually felt someone standing in front of his knees.

"Promise you can't see?"

"I promise. Although I appreciate the indulgence of using raw Thai silk, I can still discern light. Perhaps using a dyed silk, something in indigo, say, would have completed the illusion of sightlessness—"

"I still have the ball gag."

"—but this off-white is acceptable, really," Sherlock continued interrupting the flow of his thoughts easily.

In the next second, a firm ball brushed against his lips. The chemical smell of rubber assaulted his nostrils, underlined by the odor of new leather from the straps on either side.

It was a threat, but he couldn't help but say,

"How do you know I'm not a master ventriloquist, able to speak without full use of my lips to form syllables?"

The rubber ball pushed more firmly on his mouth, parting his lips and then held solidly against his front teeth.

He was pushing his luck.

"I don't really want to use this, but I will. Understood? No, don't answer aloud—"

Sherlock had started to open his mouth to reply. He closed it.

"—just nod yes or no. Do you understand?"

He nodded slightly, so not to dislodge the silk wrap.

The ball gag was taken away. He licked his lips to remove the bitter taste of rubber from them, and suddenly hands were on his thighs and his mouth was invaded by someone else's tongue.

_Kaeng phet_, he thought, decently made by someone who didn't use a cookbook, someone who grew their own kefir limes because the taste was fuller when the leaves were just picked versus being frozen for storage and then thawed—did the curry and the silk come from the same place? Possibly; there were a few Thai restaurants here in London that sold merchandise too. Both the food and silk scarf were high quality, which narrowed down the number of establishments to—

He wasn't told he was doing "it" again, but a pinching twist on a nipple snapped him back.

"Sorry," he apologized again.

He was rewarded with a chuckle, and the pressure of the hands on his legs left.

There was some rummaging through the bowls in front of him. The cold muted the odors of whatever came from the fridge, but he did hear the quiet crack as the twist top cap of a bottle was opened, and in another second, the toothsome smell of vinegar (balsamic vinegar, aged at least 12 years) moted through the air. There was something else, an unexpected deepness to it—he could almost put his finger on it—

The odor of vinegar became stronger, coming nearer; he _should _be able to name the underlying scent—

Something new pressed against his lips, something cold from the refrigerator, something with density but also give, something fleshy—

Sherlock opened his mouth and allowed it in.

Strawberry. A strawberry with a drizzle of balsamic vinegar on it, balsamic vinegar with a surprising top note of—

"Chocolate," a voice purred above him.

The unanticipated combination of flavors (he knew about the strawberries, he'd seen them brought in before being blindfolded, and the balsamic vinegar was undeniable, but the chocolate, he never expected the _chocolate_ and therefore the entire combination was _technically _unanticipated, he thought) exploded over his tongue as he bit into the fruit. His mouth became awash with saliva.

He would have to find out who made balsamic vinegar with dark chocolate in it; that was something new, something exciting, and he moaned around his mouthful.

Another chuckle made him flush, and he did not hesitate to eat the next bite fed to him. Or the next strawberry, even when he had to chase it a bit when it was teasingly traced around his lips, leaving a thin coating of the vinegar on them. When he licked it off, there was an intake of breath instead of a chuckle near him.

No more fruit was forthcoming.

Now he heard something liquid being shaken in a can. It didn't sound completely fluid, it was thick or viscous from the heavier sloshing sounds it made.

The shaking stopped and startling, hissing "kkhhhh!" sound took its place.

Sherlock smirked, even as he felt bare legs straddle his, and knees indent the cushions to either side of his thighs.


	3. Chapter 3

"I have to say I'm a bit disappointed," he said. "Commercial whipped cream from a can? I'd expected you to do nothing less than whip it yourself. I suppose you're aware heavy cream and double cream is the same thing, and it would have been easy to procure—"

Sherlock was muffled by a mouthful of sweet cream. It wasn't offered by hand this time; he discovered the nub of a nipple under the airy mound. He nipped it lightly at first, and then with more pressure as a hand slipped passed his ear to the back of his head to hold him in place.

When the fingers tightened in his hair, he released it.

The weight didn't move off his lap, so he supposed no more food was coming.

He wasn't wrong.

The hand on his head dropped to his groin. It ghosted over his partial erection, first down one side and back up the other before encircling the entire shaft and repeating the motion with the same light touch.

Sherlock skipped a breath and tensed, but the stroke didn't come again. His eyelashes flicked the silk over his face rapidly as warm fingers gently eased his foreskin down and stroked the exposed frenulum, stimulating the bundle of nerves on the underside of his cock; the sharp waves of pleasure stopped for a moment and the scent of saliva wafted to his nostrils as those devilish fingers were coated with spit before finding that same perfect spot, that spot that made him moan (the stimulation activated the parasympathetic response and acetylcholine was released, causing vasodilation, causing arterial blood to fill the corpora spongiosum and cavernosa to fill; he was fully erect now) and hold completely still so nothing would change, everything would continue building and building, spit and now something more, something thick and slick lubricated his cock which facilitated stroking and amplified the sensations, amplifiedamplified—

The stroking stopped and he couldn't contain a gasp of distress. He wouldn't beg, _he wouldn't beg—_

"Oh _please,"_ Sherlock whispered.

He wasn't made to ask twice. With a subtle repositioning up and over him he was taken in hand again and guided inward. His gasp this time was of gratitude.

His hands weren't tied. There weren't any restrictions on using them, so he grasped the hips on top of him, setting the pace he needed of the thrusts. The pace was short and choppy, and so, so good; he felt the tightening in the pit of his stomach, the pleasure rippling through him (neuromuscular euphoria)—growing stronger, stronger—all components with a part to play (vas deferens, seminal vesicles, prostate) readying for release—almost—_almost—_

All rational thought process burned out as he came, calling out wordlessly. His entire body tensed and arched as pleasure rocketed through him for several eternal seconds.

As he drifted down from the high, he relaxed. A few involuntary muscle spasms made him twitch. He felt too hot and it took some effort to catch his breath.

Quick fingers worked the knot at the back of his head and the silk scarf was drawn away before he moved up and off of him.

Try as he might, Sherlock couldn't stop a final groan as he was free from the warmth inside his lover.

That was what he hated about this. He hated the loss of control, he hated that his body moved and made sounds he didn't consciously tell it to do. He hated that he was so easily reduced to a rutting, stupid beast.

Those fingers that had freed him lifted sweaty hair off his forehead. "You okay?" Murdock asked.

The silk had been off-white, he'd made mention that he could see light through it, but he hadn't realized it had filtered a majority of the light out anyway. He blinked to readjust to the brightness.

"You okay? Was that okay?" Murdock repeated, worry creeping in around the edges.

"Yes. It was wonderful. You didn't orgasm . . ."

"Nope. That's okay, though. I enjoyed this."

Sherlock paused a second. "As did I."

He hated that he like it.

_fin._


End file.
